Fewer days end with excess time and energy to write; fewer ideas endure the day. I am more focused and more present in my life - even when I am not, I am better at pretending.
On Monday, though, I just needed a place to fall apart, and I cared very little if I would be able to put the pieces of me back together.
Relying on God's grace, resting in his protection seemed easier before my daughter was killed. Perhaps I never did, and I am just now cognizant of the work it takes.
I didn't fall apart; I just ran from the feeling all week and God's grace found me in a funny place - an incessant pace of work - incessant. Sometimes when we run from God, we run right into him.
Working until the day has all of me it can take is more normal than not. It is evidence of prayers that have sustained me - that have built a bridge between the life I knew and the the life I have. I am thankful.
Every so often, without much warning, I seem to stop somewhere along the bridge and look down. I see the depth of the cavern I am crossing, and fear stifles me; I am frightened to keep walking, frightened to fall, frightened to go back.
I come home and pick up Taylor's cell phone, looking for her life.
The preacher Sunday, teaching on trials, offered this: Sometimes we shouldn't ask why. I've wrestled with these words and Hebrews 12 since listening Sunday morning and tonight draw this conclusion.
That peace that is ours to claim, the kind that surpasses all understanding - is sometimes found in the faithful courage of not asking why. It keeps us running, running for his grace and for the rooms he has prepared for us.